


Don't Say "I Told You So"

by TheStudyInRed



Category: RWBY
Genre: Bisexual Qrow Branwen, Bottom Qrow Branwen, M/M, Mentioned Summer Rose (RWBY), Qrow Branwen is Ruby Rose's Parent, Spoilers: Volume 7 (RWBY), Volume 7 (RWBY)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStudyInRed/pseuds/TheStudyInRed
Summary: Qrow knows this is a bad idea. Getting involved with a huntsman is difficult enough, let alone one of Jimmy's boys. Clover's optimistic, lucky, charming, and worst of all, persistent.Qrow tries to break it off before Clover gets hurt. Clover insists he won't.Takes place somewhere before episode 6 of Volume 7.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 227





	1. How It Always Goes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know what happens to our boy. I wrote this to handle the echo of Qrow's scream. I wanted more of their time together that Rooster Teeth wasn't showing us. Enjoy. And please comment, let me know what you think! Might turn this into a series of oneshots. Haven't decided yet.

This is stupid. This is leading a pair of Apathy away from a pack to calm a farming community down kind of stupid. Qrow shivers, and he knows it’s not from Solitas cold. He has almost fifteen years over Clover, but the more he trembles, the more his mouth runs dry, the more his nerves thrum in his ears like a warped tune from a broken jukebox, the more he feels like a dirty old man. 

The third airship in the fourth hanger is the Ace Ops’ personal transportation, and as Qrow had found out the first time they did this, where Clover takes you to make the first move. Now, the fourth time Qrow showed up when asked, he holds his hands out and sighs. “We have to stop doing this.”

Clover wrinkles his nose. He smells like fresh mint as he leans against the cargo compartment in the airship. “Why? If you want to stop, fine. We can pretend this never happened, but I still want to know. For myself.” 

“For one, we work together,” He scratches the scruff on his jaw. “And that tends to fall apart. Fast. I wasn’t sure about that part of it the first time we…” Qrow remembers--Clover’s hands on his chest, his mouth, sweat, gasping, every touch a reminder of the drought and of course, the high as the first rains came. “did this.” 

Clover didn’t seem disappointed. He shrugs. “Respectable reason as any, but from what Winter has told me, you rarely play by the rules. The two of us are huntsmen, but you’re not Atlas military.” 

“That, I am not.” 

His gaze drops to Clover’s shoes. Atlas standard-issue for the Ace Ops and special operatives like Schnee. Qrow presses his lips into a hard line. It was months ago that he may as well have been wearing Ozpin standard-issue, for all the humiliating blind loyalty routine he did. Never knowing what the wizard had behind the curtain. Never knowing,  _ really _ , what the orders were for. Who they’d hurt. And how many people had Qrow hurt following Oz’s orders? 

The worst part’s that he’ll never know. And he’ll never know how much Oz knew about what happened to his team. To Summer. 

Yet, here is this young bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Atlesian operative, lucky and charming with eyes full of something as addictive as scotch: hope. Qrow had tasted it the last few times they’d done this, and now, as he tells Clover he wants to stop, all he wants is to reach out to touch him. 

“If this is about your semblance,” Clover says, “I want you to know I’m not afraid. Our semblances cancel each other out.” 

Qrow sighs. “Mine’s had longer to get worse. We don’t know that for sure.” 

“I’m willing to try if you are. If you still want to stop, that’s fine with me, but you won’t ever lose me as a friend. As someone to be here when you need me.” He flashes a bright smile. 

The wind howls outside the hanger, chills the metal until Qrow stands straight. His back protests the movement and clicks, but it gives him the angle, the confidence to broach the subject. “And if Jimmy’s orders tell you otherwise? Say it was the worst case scenario with Salem on our doorstep.” He cups Clover’s cheek in his hand, hates how the calluses feel against cheekbone. “I don’t think you’re prepared for what’s ahead.” 

Clover doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t smile either. Instead his brow knits, the corners of his mouth tug into a frown. He holds Qrow’s hand and steps closer. “I graduated top of my class from Atlas Academy. I’ve been a special operative for years. What could the world possibly have for me that I’m not prepared for?” 

In a flash, between the beats of his heart, Qrow remembers her voice. “ _ I can do this. Don’t ask me not to go. I expected this from Tai, but not you. Not from the man I fell in love with. _ ” 

“Hey, look at me.” Clover asks, his hand under Qrow’s chin but ever defiant, he closes his eyes. 

Two steps closer. Clover’s hand moves to his chest, over his heart as it pounds. “What are you so afraid of?” 

_ Damn it. _ Qrow moves in and crushes his mouth against Clover’s. The two of them race, Qrow forward, Clover backward till the horseshoe on his belt cracks against the hanger wall. Hands move to Qrow’s belt, but the older huntsman holds them over Clover’s head. 

Stars, it’s been so long since he held someone. He knows it’s why he started this thing with Clover to start with. They’re kindred spirits, friends, appreciative of each other. And while their teams see indomitable huntsmen spitting in the face of Grimm, here in this hangar they shed it all. They’re not even Qrow and Clover in here, just two warriors in need of relief from a stressful life. But now it’s becoming different. They take meals together, showers too if no one’s around to hear what inevitably follows. 

It’s becoming worse. Though he has chanted it to himself a million times not to, Qrow has begun to give a damn. 

He presses his body to Clover’s and when they break apart, Qrow licks his lips. “I don’t want to stop, but I need to. When bad luck follows everywhere you go, you start to pick up on the signs. Things like this,  _ good  _ things happening to  _ me  _ of all people, is one of them.” 

“Good things are allowed to happen to you, Qrow.” Clover huffs and wrenches one hand free to grab him by the collar. 

He rumbles like pleasant thunder as the younger huntsman yanks him closer to kiss again. Qrow is convinced his semblance took a nap to give him Clover. “Not to me.” He migrates south to melt all that confidence in his hands like chocolate. “Not like this.” 

Clover shoves him back, eyes narrowed. He unclips his belt and unbuttons his shirt. “Then let me convince you otherwise.” 

Qrow rolls his eyes, but flexes as he fiddles with his belt slowly, just to drive Clover nuts. “Might take a while.” 

Clover swats his hands away and kisses him. “We’ll make time.” 


	2. Midnight Matters

Clover wraps a towel around his hips and uses another to dry his hair. Once he’s done he swipes the steam off the mirror. He stretches, his back clicking a couple of times. The smell of sandalwood floods his nose as he sighs at himself. He has far fewer scars than he should, but the ones he does have serve to remind him of his limits. The biggest one is a small butterfly-like scar near his hipbone from the last time he saw Tyrian Callows. 

He touches it with his lips pursed. Though he prefers to think of talent first, he knows the scar was luck. He was lucky to get away with his life. These new rumors of Tyrian’s return make him nervous, but next time, he’s sure, will be different. 

Clover jolts with his pants halfway up his legs as his scroll buzzes. A text from Qrow.  **Got a minute?**

Speaking of different. Clover’s chest tightens. He finishes pulling his pants up, ruffles his hair and snaps a picture in the mirror. Cream-colored walls make his torso look darker, free hand tucked into his pocket. He sends it to Qrow with the caption:  **Sure. What can I do for you?**

He carries the rest of his uniform to his attached quarters. Regulation requires everything to be pin-straight and pristine, but lately Clover allowed it to wrinkle. A sock on the floor. The covers of his bed drawn back at one of the corners. His boots, instead of standing at attention by the door, remain near his bed where he’d kicked them off after patrol. 

Anyone else and Clover would have deep-cleaned the place, but instead he sits at his desk, content to let it be. He’s not the leader of the Ace Ops. Not with Qrow. He’s just Clover. And for the first time in his life, just Clover’s enough. 

Qrow’s reply:  **Open your window.**

It’s almost too late when he does. A black bird shoots through the opening in barely enough time, there’s a flash of dark mist, and Qrow rolls to a crouch on his floor, nearly soundless. He’s fresh from patrol, the gritty smell of Mantle clings to him like a second skin. Harbinger gleams in the low light at his hip. 

The huntsman straightens and rolls his shoulders. He avoids Clover’s eyes as he glances at the clock on the nightstand. It’s nearly midnight. “Sorry for comin’ by so late.” 

Clover shivers as he shuts the window and cuts off the artic Solitas air. “Don’t be.” 

“Need to talk to you about…” Qrow pauses, mouth half-open as he chews through possible ways to phrase it. He settles on, “what we’re doing together.” He meets his eyes, searching as he backtracks, “That’s if this is still something we’re doing.” 

“I’d like to continue, if that’s what you’re asking.” Clover sits at his desk and gestures for Qrow to take the bed. He doesn’t. The huntsman seems restless, unsure of where to put his hands, his eyes, how to stand. At last, Clover gives in. “You’re killing me. Come on. Out with it. What’s on your mind?” 

Qrow lets out a frustrated noise. “I’m not good at this. I haven’t been with anyone in years--well, beyond a one night stand. Last person I got involved with died and left behind a family.” His hands shake at his sides and he finally sits, if only to stop his trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you, all right? That’s the last thing I want.”

“The only thing that’s gonna hurt me is if you don’t want to try as much as I do.” Clover leans forward to take his hand. “Let me tell you about my relationships. Here in Atlas, appearances matter more than the truth. If I didn’t have Ironwood behind me, I’d be treated no better than the faunus just for who I’m attracted to. The last person  _ I  _ got involved with, about three months into it, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and acted like he was meeting me for the first time in front of his wife.” 

A snarl works itself on the huntsman’s face. “What a scumbag.” 

“He wasn’t the only one in that scenario, believe me.” He grits his teeth. “I smiled at his wife that night, joked with her. She was a good woman. And I felt like the scum of the earth. Anyone else in my position wouldn’t. I mean, what luck--I found a good man, or so I thought, willing to stay discreet with me for safety’s sake, but I wasn’t about to waltz around with a man like that knowing I was breaking up a home. He had children. His oldest was about Ruby’s age.” 

“I don’t give a damn about appearances. And I could never look at you any other way than how I do now.” Qrow squeezes his hand and gives him a fierce, hungry look. “Come here.” 

Clover stands, taking his sweet time to walk over. Winter wind howls at the windowpane. The smell of the huntsman’s sweat mixes with the spicy body spray as he presses his face to Clover’s chest. 

A hearty laugh against the fine hair of his stomach. “You’re beautiful, lucky charm.” 

“So are you. If you’d let anybody tell you.”

Qrow paws at his hips, the cold of his rings a thrill on his skin. The huntsman leans in to kiss the butterfly-like scar on his hipbone. Clover combs through his black hair and coaxes a groan out of him. 

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?” Clover whispers as the flush shows up on his stomach. 

A pair of red eyes, half-lidded, peer up at him through thick lashes. “Please.” 

Clover’s heart pounds. “As lucky as I am, I’ve never been in love before.” 

There’s a flash in Qrow’s eyes that tells him he has, but it fades fast. It’s replaced by the cocky, almost hopeful glint that drew Clover to him in the first place. The huntsman stands and cradles his face in rough hands. “Never?” 

Though he’s stronger, thicker, and taller than him, Qrow somehow makes him feel small, vulnerable, peeling back the layers of Atlesian Ace-Op and huntsman to reveal a man. It’s never Special Operative Ebi. It’s never ‘sir’, something Qrow calls him when he’s annoyed. 

In these moments, Clover’s skin erupts in goosebumps. Born in a cold, desolate place and all it took to thaw him was a hopeless cause, wrapped in three layers of stray dog and recovering alcoholic. How he questions the ‘never’ in his confession. The hope in his ‘never?’, as if surely someone like the ever-optimistic good luck charm had been in love before. 

Clover shakes his head. He pulls him in by the coat. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but--” 

“A few months is a lifetime for a huntsman.” Something in Qrow’s eyes, the way his eyes glance at his lips, tells him he’s had weeks that felt like years before. He’s scraped to get home before. To get back to Ruby and Yang. 

“Ever been hungry? So hungry you couldn’t sleep?” Clover rests a hand against Qrow’s stubbly neck.

“Yeah. I can’t tell you how many times I’d starve all night, feeling miserable, but then the sun would rise and I’d feel that warmth,” Qrow smiles, just a timid curl of his lips. “It was as good as a meal to me. To know I got to see another day.” 

His cheeks hurt from smiling back. “That’s what it feels like to see you every day.” 

All the reply Qrow gives is to grip him tight and kiss Clover as if spilling everything inside him. 


End file.
